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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24894880">Can't fight the moonlight</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sourcherrymagiks/pseuds/Sourcherrymagiks'>Sourcherrymagiks</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Fashion &amp; Models, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, Kissing, M/M, Makeup, Pants, Paris (City), Photography, Remix, eating like a gerbil</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 01:48:56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,698</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24894880</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sourcherrymagiks/pseuds/Sourcherrymagiks</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The whole world is locked down. Paused. Stopped.</p><p>It’s fine.</p><p>It’s totally fine.</p><p>It’s only my whole career on the line.</p><p>And I won’t even begin to enumerate the reasons that I don’t relish being stuck with Simon bloody Snow for an indefinite amount of time in the most romantic city on the planet.</p><p>Set me on fire.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>217</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Carry On Remix</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Can't fight the moonlight</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artescapri/gifts">tbazzsnow (Artescapri)</a>.</li>


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/21496714">Always the Sun</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artescapri/pseuds/tbazzsnow">tbazzsnow (Artescapri)</a>.
        </li>

    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Beta'd by the wonderful <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/aralias/pseuds/aralias"> Aralias </a></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Baz</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>It’s been an exhausting season but I categorically would not have wished for this particular kind of rest. </p><p>From the pressure of the runway, to fashion event after event. We’ve done Tokyo and Milan. Paris was nearly finished and then we were due to arrive at London Fashion week. </p><p>I’ve walked Fashion Week so many times before, always as the central focus of a high couture line.</p><p>This time I’ve had to share the spotlight, which is virtually intolerable. I have no idea why I agreed to it. </p><p>It makes sense that I’m the one they chose for the Pitch Moon line. The House of Pitch would never launch a major collection without me. I’m practically synonymous with their brand. </p><p>The element that makes no sense is that Simon Snow is representing the Sun line. </p><p>Of course, he’s perfect for it – which is both maddening and utterly on point. </p><p>But Snow has never been part of a high couture line before. He’s an Instagram model for approachable brands. His photographs are all of him living his life while looking utterly edible in snug jeans and cozy jumpers. Swimwear. Unbuttoned henleys and fitted shirts. Tanned and golden. </p><p>Gorgeous. </p><p>But not Fashion Week material. My mother never would have signed him, even with the audience he has eating out of his hand.She hired only the most unique and unusual talent. </p><p>Back then, it was a mark of high achievement, of exquisite refinement, of unparalleled accomplishment, to be signed by Watford. We had the most highly sought after models. The talk of Fashion Week. The most riveting beauty.</p><p>Snow has none of that. </p><p>Well, I suppose he is riveting. I’ll give him that.</p><p>He has absolutely no experience of the wider world of fashion. </p><p>But Mage has been pushing Snow relentlessly for the past few years. Ever since Mage took over my mother’s agency he’s been advancing his own agenda. His agenda seems to be entirely based in social media to the exclusion of most other work.</p><p>We’ve lost models. We’ve lost agents. We’ve lost contracts. </p><p>The House of Pitch is one of the only high-end design firms that still contracts exclusively with Watford’s models – mainly because my aunt is the head of it. And she ensures I figure prominently in Pitch shows, advertisements and magazine coverage. </p><p>She’d drop Watford in a minute if I left. </p><p> </p><p>I can’t believe Fiona actually approved Snow’s hiring, but this was going to be Ebb’s first real collection and she can be a little ‘highly strung’. So when she declared Snow was her muse, we were all fucked. </p><p>Ebb’s been working as her brother Nico’s assistant for years, but this collection is their first show as co-designers. Equal billing. Nico’s Moon designs and Ebb’s Sun ones. </p><p>I’ve nothing against Ebb’s creations. </p><p>What’s truly exasperating is how fucking good Simon Snow looks in them. </p><p>No, what’s truly exasperating is how good Simon Snow looks all the fucking time.</p><p>I have to keep correcting my thinking. All of that is over now. (The fashion part, not the disgusting good looks part.)</p><p>He was representing the Sun line. I was representing the Moon line. Now we’re representing nothing at all. </p><p>Instead we’re trapped in an apartment in Paris under lockdown. The whole world is locked down. Paused. Stopped. </p><p>It’s fine. </p><p>It’s totally fine.</p><p>It’s only my whole career on the line. </p><p>And I won’t even begin to enumerate the reasons that I don’t relish being stuck with Simon bloody Snow for an indefinite amount of time in the most romantic city on the planet. </p><p>Set me on fire.</p><p>
  <strong>Simon</strong>
</p><p>I try to keep it in perspective. I mean, it could be a lot worse than being stuck in a swanky apartment (it’s got a bloody gym) and all expenses paid. I mean, people have lost everything back home.</p><p>But I’m gutted that I won’t get to finish the runway season. </p><p>I never really thought I’d be a catwalk model. And if not for Baz I probably  would have lost the contract already. I really wanted to do it. To show Baz I <em>could </em>do it.</p><p>Turns out Baz is a surprisingly good teacher. </p><p>I mean, he obviously thinks I’m the world’s biggest pain in the arse and he treats me like I’m the thickest twat he’s ever laid eyes on. He still taught me how to do this, though, all this shit. </p><p>And I like him loads, even if he does snarl at me when I touch a carb (he once slapped a Dorito out of my hand so hard it exploded like a cheesy firework). My skincare routine makes him visibly shudder. He once put my joggers in the bin and claimed that he thought they were a cleaner’s rag. He also steals my biscuits when he thinks I’m not looking (he would sacrifice Fiona on an altar for a chocolate Hobnob). But mostly he makes me laugh.</p><p>It’s been quiet the last two days while everyone has tried to get their heads around the world closing down. Baz and I were the last of the crew due to leave Paris because our interview ran over. The lockdown was announced in the cab on the way to the airport. So here we are living the high life in the Pitch family apartment.</p><p>It won’t last though, this peace and quiet. I expect instructions will come soon. I can’t believe they’re going to let us lounge around here while we’re on their payroll. Mage is too much of a grabby bastard for that. Fiona is too brilliant. </p><p><strong>Baz</strong> </p><p>I’m dreading this Zoom meeting. (What the merciful fuck is a Zoom anyway?) But Fiona clearly has a plan and non-compliance won’t be an option. </p><p>I sigh deeply as her scheming face appears on screen. “What precisely are you ordering us to do?”</p><p>She gives me an evil smile. “We’ve mapped out a full Instagram campaign. You both post multiple times a day to up the hype. Then once every three days, we’ll release a photo of you modelling the collection pieces on the Sun/Moon account, which we’re setting up now. You’ll have full artistic guidance sent in advance.” </p><p>She says it like it’s perfectly normal for two models to do the jobs of a team of people on a ridiculous time frame.</p><p>It’s insulting. </p><p>“Who’s going to style us, Fiona? Who’s going to photograph us? This is not what we signed on for.” I’m as sharp as I can be. I won’t be taken advantage of just because I’m family. </p><p>“Basil, you’re perfectly capable of styling yourself and Simon beautifully. Simon is a photographer and we’ll send equipment –he can show you the ropes. And don’t start on contracts with me, boy. What else would you be doing?”</p><p>She has a point. </p><p>While I’m stuck here I might as well work. Otherwise I’ll just be watching Simon for hours each day as he slumps around the place in a state of half undress. I can at least keep my mind on work rather than trying not to expire from lust. </p><p>Simon speaks before I can. “I’m up for it – sounds fun.” He looks at me hopefully.</p><p>I nod. </p><p>“Excellent stuff. All photos to us first please, we are running your social media now. Si, more shirt off. Baz, try and at least wear pants. See ya.”</p><p>We both splutter as she disappears from the screen. </p><p>I agree wholeheartedly that Simon should show more skin but I’m not sure that I want him doing that while I’m locked in an apartment with him. His Insta has always been beautiful and verging on the wholesome. He’ll need to dirty it up a little for the campaign to be believable. </p><p>Much as the House of Pitch might like to pretend this line is art it’s fundamentally not. </p><p>This collection is sex. </p><p>The collection is barely decent. </p><p>Simon is fine with selling that when he’s on the runway (he can’t hide how delicious he is when he moves) but that Insta will not do. </p><p>“Baz? What does she mean about your Insta?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Do you…?  Is it ...? I mean, I don’t mind getting my kit off – Mage just told me not to before, but do you?”</p><p>I hand him my phone open to Instagram rather than answer the question. The way his stupid mouth drops open would stop my heart if I thought for a second that it was anything other than straight boy discomfort. </p><p>My brand is a little different to his. I’m going to have to clean up a little for the campaign to work. Up to now my aesthetic has been slightly less about clothes. Clothes are my day job after all, no need to oversell. </p><p>“Close your mouth, Snow. It’s just skin”</p><p>He hands me back my phone and shifts his weight forward and back on his feet. </p><p>“S’good. You look good.”</p><p>I cannot do this. I turn to leave. </p><p>“No need to have a crisis, Snow – you heard Fi. I have to wear pants.”</p><p>
  <strong>Simon</strong>
</p><p>It’s a bloody good campaign idea. I sift through the emails and it starts to come together in my mind. The individual collection items will each get a showcase in the same setting. Our balcony is perfect for it, the view of Paris behind, all floaty curtains and romance. </p><p>The moon line will have Baz at night and I’ll be the sun line in daylight. We’ll have to do my shoots whenever we have the right light because we can’t count on sunshine. Baz will be easier to shoot because night is fairly reliable. </p><p>It’s going to be stunning if we can pull it off. </p><p>The other stuff will be harder. I’m used to having my Instagram curated from time to time but this is new. This is going to be a build up to an online event. They’d be stupid if they didn’t play up the obvious angle here and I dunno if I can stand it. Best not to think about it. </p><p>I snap a few shots of my feet propped up on the balcony with the haze of Paris in the background and send them off. </p><p>Baz swishes back in (always making an entrance that one) and takes his shirt off as he plonks himself in the chair. </p><p>“Get to work then, oh great photographer.” He arches his back as he says it and it is breathtaking. </p><p>I take the shot, then the next, then the next. I fall into some kind of trance photographing him. </p><p>He’s mesmerising. </p><p>He snaps me out of it, though. </p><p>“Right, that’s enough. Jeans off, lean over there.” He points to my jeans like I don’t know what they are (I actually might have forgotten everything except the heat that’s coiling in my belly) and then motions to the back of the sofa. </p><p>I just do as I’m told like an idiot. </p><p>“Snow, you’re a model – please stand like it. Left foot back, right knee up. Tilt your pelvis forward. Lay your head on your arms. Not quite. T shirt off.” </p><p>He’s all business and it’s easier this way. I follow each instruction and it’s over within minutes. He shows me the picture and I do a stupid double take. It looks nothing like me. My arse looks. Fuck. </p><p>“Right. We start properly tomorrow but right now I’m fucking starving. Dinner?” He’s pulling on some joggers (which I am certain he refers to as ‘loungewear’) and heading to the kitchen. I just nod. </p><p>Apparently this is how I get to spend quarantine. </p><p>
  <strong>Baz</strong>
</p><p>Jesus fucking Christ. His arse. How exactly am I supposed to survive this? </p><p>Tomorrow will be actual hell. </p><p>I manage to get through the far too domestic salad on the sofa with a movie. I choose to ignore Simon’s obvious attempts to find cheese concealed under the watercress. My self control is virtually legendary with only minor indiscretions to wound my pride. I can’t stop my knee drifting towards his, can’t stop myself leaning in a little too far, can’t resist breathing him in.</p><p>We take casual pictures that look warm and relaxed but will no doubt be tarted up by Fiona. This ludicrous plan might work if I can avoid outright sexual harassment of my co-star. </p><p>Once I’m in my room it’s hard to decide if wanking over him will improve the situation or make it infinitely worse. </p><p>I err on the side of wanking. </p><p>Then I fall asleep feeling like an idiot. A lonely love sick idiot. </p><p>Watery French sunlight wakes me up. That or possibly what appear to be sex noises. It takes me far too long to remember that the home gym is next to my room and Simon is at his least restrained when he’s training. </p><p>I grudgingly get up and into my workout gear. I wouldn’t normally exercise during catwalk season, I wouldn't usually need to, but there’s no pool here that I can use and no safe way to disperse all the tension. </p><p>Snow greets me with his smile full of sunshine. (The way his sweaty vest clings to him should be illegal.) I take a couple of pictures of him as he moves, then have him use the pull-up bar. The photo is delicious. It looks effortless but all his muscles are taut and defined. </p><p>I hit send and then sit on the weights bench and take three or four selfies before handing my phone over to Simon for him to try from a better angle. When he gives it back the image on the screen is brilliant. I’m used to seeing myself in pictures, it’s been my life, but this is fresh. </p><p>“Good eye, Snow – although you do have the best model” </p><p>He laughs heartily at that then says:</p><p>“Get yourself sorted then. We need to look over the instructions and get breakfast. We should start shooting as soon as.”</p><p>“I like this bossy side of you, Snow, but don’t get used to it”</p><p>“Shut up, you prat, and get sweating” </p><p>He ducks out of the room before my towel can hit him. </p><p>
  <strong>Simon</strong>
</p><p>He shouts from the bathroom as I’m rooting through the cupboards to see what supplies we have in. </p><p>I didn’t pick him for a shouter, but God does he yell. ( I guess it’s from all the time backstage at runways). When I knock on the door he yells again at me to come in. </p><p>I swing the door open and freeze. </p><p>“Calm down, Snow – I’ve got pants on. You won’t catch gay today.” </p><p>He sounds bored and I don’t really understand the bit about catching gay. Does he think .. ? I mean I haven’t been obvious but I’m not that good an actor. Surely he can’t be that thick.</p><p>Well, that’s a thought for later. </p><p>What’s for right now is the beautiful dripping wet boy in front of me – who apparently wants me to take his picture. He looks delicious. All tousled haired and damp. He’s leaning against the shower glass with one arm above his head. It’s enough to make my knees go weak. </p><p>Why does he always have to smell so fucking good ? </p><p>Why does he have to look so fucking good? </p><p>Why does he have to be such a git? </p><p>“Light is shit in here, give me a minute.” I go out to grab one of the lighting sets that arrived along with the other trailer full of equipment this morning. </p><p>When I get back he looks bored.</p><p>“I thought we were supposed to be doing candid shots. There’s no need to suck up to Fiona, she won’t care.” He sounds so over it and I can’t figure it out. </p><p>“Candid doesn’t mean shit Baz – it’s a good shot, you look good but you need better light. Unless you want me to look better in every shot.”</p><p>That sends his eyebrows right up and I think he mutters “As if” under his breath. But he stops being a whiner for long enough for me to light him properly. </p><p>The shot is lush. I’ve got my work cut out for me today. </p><p>
  <strong>Baz</strong>
</p><p>I can’t keep playing that game. It’s going to end in flames. If he does respond, I’m sure it’ll be all shame and no homo next day. If he doesn’t, my self esteem might never recover. </p><p>I don’t know what I would have done if he hadn’t gone to get the lights.</p><p>Stupid. Stupid.</p><p>He sits far too close to me at the kitchen table as we look over the notes and eat the disgusting cereal he uncovered. I want to be angry at him every time he spits chewed up carb onto my face but instead I have to restrain myself from licking him. </p><p>“Shut your mouth when you’re eating, Snow. You’re not a gerbil.” </p><p>He looks a bit hurt but then goes straight back to the iPad and carries on talking about work. </p><p>I need to leave him be. </p><p>I can’t. </p><p>After breakfast we spend approximately a million hours photographing a cactus until I can make it look ‘sexy’.I attempt to protest because it would be far easier to make <em>Simon</em> look sexy (it would be virtually impossible not to) but he’s having none of it. This is practice, apparently. And I need to up my game before he’ll let me near him with a camera. </p><p>We work well together, I occasionally pretend to get offended and he pretends to get exasperated but it mostly ends in laughter. Somehow that’s even worse than the wanting to bite him. The wanting to smile with him. </p><p>When he’s finally convinced that I grasp enough to pull off the shots planned for the Sun line, we call it a day. Time has already become viscous and between the planning and the photography and the deliveries, it’s already late enough for a quick dinner before bed. </p><p>I’m brutally destroying some pasta for us when Simon bounds into the kitchen waving his phone at me. </p><p>“Baz, look! I think it’s working although I’m obviously the most popular.”</p><p>I take his phone and scroll after raising an eyebrow that should strike the fear of god into him but barely quiets him down. Fiona has been uncharacteristically quiet all day so I assume the shots we’ve been sending have been up to her standards. I’m expecting modest success on Instagram. </p><p>There are thousands of likes on my pictures and on his. </p><p>There are comments upon comments upon comments. </p><p>And a range of suggestions that make my eyes water a bit. </p><p>Wild speculations about our relationship. </p><p>It’s working. </p><p>Maybe a little better than anticipated. </p><p>
  <strong>Simon</strong>
</p><p>It’s bright when I wake up and for a minute I don’t think about the comments on Insta. Then it all comes flooding back and I feel myself blushing.</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>He doesn’t care though. It’s all just a job to him. And we have to get to work now while the light is this good. </p><p>But, of course, I have to wake him up. And of course, I have to feed him before we start. I guess his posh arse is used to having lie ins and servants. Today though –today, he is my staff. I bet he fucking hates it. </p><p>“Right, Pitch – make me beautiful.” </p><p>I glance at him as I say it and see him raise an eyebrow. I know I’m not his type but he doesn’t have to be rude about it. </p><p>“Up on the stool then, Snow. This is going to hurt.” I think he’s joking but I don’t dare laugh in case he’s not.</p><p>The look is wild. I have hundreds of tiny little sun sequins running in an arc from my left temple down to my right hip, spreading wide across my chest. </p><p>I feel like I haven’t actually taken a breath for about an hour while he’s been touching me. </p><p>God, has he touched me. </p><p>His fingers have been on my face, my neck, my chest. </p><p>I’ve felt his breath in my mouth. </p><p>I think I might be getting light headed with having to hold back from… Never mind.</p><p>Finally he decides I’m good enough and we work through the shot. He knows where he wants me, he just doesn’t have the technical skill to make it happen exactly. It takes all morning and I’m aching all over by the time we finally get it. </p><p>We eat lunch and then use the last of the light to get the second piece photographed. </p><p>This one is harder. The first collection piece was a shirt falling open across the line of sun sequins on my chest. The next piece is ‘technically’ shorts but that’s a very generous description of some pants. Some pants that are more hole than pant. </p><p>He has to add more sequins on my belly. We both pretend not to notice the way my skin ripples under his touch. (Fortunately the ‘shorts’ are so tight I don’t have enough blood flow to embarrass myself, at least like that.I’m pretty sure he can hear me breathing like an asthmatic goat, though.)</p><p>This time there’s gold highlighter too. It’s not that much more than we wore on the runway, but I still feel like a bit of a prat. I don’t usually hang at home in full daytime drag being ‘sexy’.</p><p>“Head back, Snow. Part your lips. Hand in your hair – good. Hook your thumb in the waistband. Excellent.” He gives the instructions so professionally, but it still sounds dirty to me. (God, what is wrong with me?)</p><p>This shot takes half the time. He’s determined and focussed and the photos are stunning. It takes 14 seconds from the time we send them to Fiona for her to call.</p><p>“You little bastards have pulled it off. Who knew you had this much sex in you, Si?”</p><p>I know I’m blushing like a twat again. </p><p>“Er, thanks, I think?” I mumble.</p><p>She’s already talking over me though “Let’s get the rest done as soon as please and don’t forget the casual boy pals shots. It’s a shame you’re so fucking straight, Si, or we could do more of a love story here.” </p><p>I feel a bubble of hot rage burst inside me. I don’t know why it gets me but I’m so fucked off now. </p><p>“Fiona that would be skanky and cheap. We aren’t your property to dick with. Also I’m not fucking straight and I wish you would all stop fucking assuming stuff. I’m going to shower.” </p><p><strong>Baz</strong> </p><p>He’s not straight. </p><p>I cut Fiona off and grab him before he can escape into the bathroom. I should not do this. This is stupid. </p><p>Stupid. </p><p>Stupid.</p><p>“Snow, sorry. Sorry about that. I shouldn’t have – We shouldn’t have presumed. I’ve just never heard you talk about it. Or about anyone.” I’m making this so much worse. </p><p>He turns his face up to mine and he looks so vulnerable when he stammers. “The bloke thing . . . uh . . . that’s . . . a recent development. Don’t quite know what it makes me, but I’m pretty confident I’m not straight.”</p><p>“It was out of line for us to say anything, Snow. My apologies. I shouldn’t have allowed myself to make assumptions.” I’m heartily ashamed of myself. I stumble on blindly. “It’s an unexpected commonality we’ve got, Snow – an affinity for blokes.” I’m trying for a light tone, a desperate attempt at cheer.  </p><p>“Just one bloke. For me. But he’s not. He wouldn’t be into this, into me.”</p><p>That makes it even worse. Some lucky bastard has been the genus of Snow’s queer awakening and the tosser doesn’t even know what he’s missing by being so bloody oblivious.</p><p>“I’m sorry, Snow. I knew the agency would exploit the situation as much as they could. But this must be really uncomfortable for you, so we can dial back the insinuations if it helps.”</p><p>He leans on the wall. “No, it is totally fine. I knew, too. I’m a prat but I’m not thick. Let’s make this a success, eh?”</p><p>I nod stupidly at him and he slumps off to the bathroom, appalling posture and all. </p><p>He’s not straight. </p><p>But there’s someone else. </p><p>It was one thing to pine over Snow when he was completely unattainable due to his overwhelming straightness.  It’s another to pine over him, knowing he’s attracted to men, but that he’ll never be attracted to me.  </p><p>I think I preferred him unattainable. </p><p>It was far less depressing. </p><p>
  <strong>Simon</strong>
</p><p>I’m such an idiot. </p><p>I come out of my shame shower still feeling like a massive prat. Fortunately Baz has decided that we still have work to do. Honestly, it’s easier. Or it would be if he didn’t look like that. </p><p>His hair is falling over his face but there’s a line of tiny silver stars snaking over his body. A reflection of my make-up earlier, but of course he looks like art. The black eyeliner is dangerous looking and it sends a tingle down my spine. </p><p>“Are you ready to work, Snow?” He’s got his professional voice on. It doesn’t help. </p><p>“Yep, get in position.” I try to match his tone but I know I sound silly and embarrassed and fuck it. </p><p>I do what I do, take it all to the shoot. I’m not unsure or clumsy when I’ve got a camera in my hands. The world makes sense like this. It feels like magic. He makes it magic. Each turn of his face, the twist of his torso, the way the streetlights play on his skin. It’s all magic. </p><p>I have the shot within the first three pictures. </p><p>We’re both happier this way round, me photographing him. This is how we work best. The rhythm of our bodies in motion like this almost takes my breath away. He doesn’t have to go far, I can follow where he leads and make the most of it. And I do. </p><p>I realise I’m far too close and I have break the spell before I break myself. </p><p>“S’good. I got it. Next look?” </p><p>I’m out of breath. It’s embarrassing. </p><p>“Yeah. Yes. I mean, yes.” </p><p>He runs a hand through his hair like he’s the one that’s flustered. Thank fuck he leaves the room to change into his version of the shorts. (Of course he looks disgustingly good in them.)</p><p>He leans back against the window frame and tips his head back exposing miles of throat that I’m pretty sure that I ... </p><p>“That’s it, Baz. Right there. It’s so good.” </p><p>Everything I say is punctuated by the click of the camera. He adjusts after each breath –it makes me catch mine. I could do this forever. But I can only drag it out for so long without just becoming a pervert. </p><p>Twelve more looks. That’s all I have to get through. </p><p>I can’t decide if that’s too many or not enough. </p><p>
  <strong>Baz</strong>
</p><p>I’m so glad that I have to shower after that little interaction. Because I need a moment. </p><p>I’ve been looked at my whole life. It’s my career and I’m good at it. I can draw people in. Even if they don’t find me attractive, they still can’t keep their eyes off me. That wasn’t what just happened, though, was it? </p><p>I’ve discovered just how good a photographer he is over the last few days, but I’ve been shot by the very best and they didn’t make me feel like <em>that</em>. Like it was something we were doing together. Doing to each other. </p><p>I want to do it again. I want to control the speed of his breath. I want to provoke his movements. I want to be the centre of his world. If I can’t have him, I can at least have this. </p><p>When I’m calmer and cleaner, I head to the kitchen where Snow is unpacking the takeaway. Neither of us was going to play cook after today. </p><p>I pull up a stool next to him at the breakfast bar and we eat in what would be companionable silence if he didn’t eat like a rhino chewing toffee.</p><p>“Snow, I’m going to record this noise so that when I inevitably kill you for making that sound my lawyer can submit the recording in my defence. I’m sure they’ll let me off immediately.”</p><p>Instead of looking hurt or moving away, he laughs spitting rice over the table top. I sigh. He laughs harder. </p><p>I wish I hated it. </p><p>“Do you miss your boyfriend?” he asks out of nowhere startling me a little bit. </p><p>“I’m not seeing anyone.” I take a breath and plunge recklessly ahead. “I don’t have a boyfriend.” </p><p>Snow’s eyes widen. His mouth is still open and there’s a blush of pink on his cheeks. (I suppose that might be from the mountain of food he shovelled into himself, though.)  </p><p>“Surely . . . surely . . .” </p><p>“Surely what, Snow? Spit it out.” </p><p>“Surely there’s someone, Baz. A bloke like you, smart, fit . . .” </p><p>I cough with shock. Did Snow just call me fit ? I mean, yes, I’m a model. I’m basically the definition of fit. It’s practically the first line in my job description, for Christ’s sake.  But it’s one thing to be generically fit, to the agents, designers, consumers.  </p><p>It’s another to be fit in the eyes of Simon Snow. </p><p>He keeps blustering. “I mean, I’ve seen you flirt with Gareth and I know Rhys is always hovering around you. I . . . I just assumed that there was someone. I mean . . . you don’t talk about it but you’re a bit of a private person. I . . . I just assumed there was someone that had your interest.” He rubs the back of his neck again, eyes cast down. </p><p>I’m holding my breath. </p><p>“I just . . . you leave the events early. You’re on your mobile all the time.” He swallows again. “I just wondered about it.” </p><p>Snow’s been wondering about me? My heart is pounding in my chest but I try to keep my expression bland and my voice cool. I decide to address the least unsettling thing he’s said. The only thing that I can safely discuss. </p><p>“Everyone flirts with Gareth and Rhys, Snow. It’s inconsequential. They’ve been together for years.”</p><p>“What?” He actually puts his fork down. (To be perfectly fair I don’t know why he bothers with a fork at all, a trough would be sufficient.) </p><p>I roll my eyes. “Even you can’t be that thick, Snow? Isn’t it obvious?” </p><p>He sputters and mutters out a “No,” and then frowns at me again. “But they’re all over you, Baz. Every time. Draped over your shoulders, giving you backrubs, playing with your hair.” </p><p>“Goodness, Snow, don’t be disgusting. Neither of them are my type”  I almost take pity on him, he’s flushed and disconcerted and so very thick. “We’re friends, Snow. It’s normal for us to be physically affectionate in that way. It doesn’t mean anything more.” </p><p>“But . . but . . .”  He’s like a tea kettle about to boil over. I should put him out of his misery but it’s quite entertaining to see him this way, naan bread paused half way to his mouth in bewilderment. </p><p>It’s fucking adorable.  </p><p>“Have you watched them when they’re together?” Snow’s brows furrow and I want to warn him about future wrinkles but he’s so cute in his confusion. </p><p>“They may not be overt with their touches . . .” I pause and close my eyes, thinking on the effortless way Gareth and Rhys connect so intensely but subtly. I envy them that. </p><p>“But they can be on opposite sides of a room, a crowded dance club, separated by a mass of people, still their focus is so distinctly on each other. It’s like they’re linked by an invisible thread, their eyes indulging in private conversations, their body language sending messages only they can decipher.  It’s beautiful.” </p><p>He’s relinquished the bread in favour of cupping his jaw in his hand and leaning on the table. He’s definitely staring at me like I just said something idiotic. I <em>know</em> it’s idiotic. Wishing for something like that. Theirs is a once in a lifetime connection. </p><p>“So you mean . . . you mean, you don’t. . . you haven’t . . .” I can’t believe Snow is still fixated on this.</p><p>“Yes, Snow. That’s what I mean. I don’t have a secret boyfriend sequestered away in the East Village. Or in Canary Wharf. I’m single and likely to stay that way.” Why the everloving fuck did I blurt that last bit out? I’m a disaster. </p><p>Endlessly shaming myself. </p><p>A constant disappointment.</p><p>“That doesn’t seem right. I hope you find that someone. Who’s magic you can feel across the room.” </p><p>And with that he’s gone. I’m left wondering what the hell just happened. </p><p>
  <strong>Simon</strong>
</p><p>Another day, another day. We’ve slipped into a routine of sorts in this blob of time. The day is punctuated by selfies and workouts, breakfast and lunch, showers and TV. Most of my shots are done for the sun line except for the final look. It’s been grey for days, though. Grey and warm. Fucking horrid. </p><p>But now it’s time to shoot Baz’s final look. I’ve not wanted this to end. Shooting him has been the most fun I’ve had in years and the pictures are something else. (Even Fiona said they were alright so I’m taking that half a compliment as high praise.) I’m faffing with the set-up when he comes in and like the professional he is he sets himself up exactly in the way described in the prompt sheet for this look. </p><p>Well, I say look. It’s pants. It’s just pants. (I mean they are very nice pants and he walks a runway in them like nothing I’ve ever seen.) </p><p>They are the key piece of this collection, though. </p><p>Baz explained it to me when I first started. The House of Pitch, well all fashion houses, use the haute couture as a show. It doesn’t really make money. It just makes the more sellable stuff more desirable. Perfume, sunglasses, bags and pants.</p><p>The jackets and suits cost eye-watering amounts of cash and still lose the fashion house money. All the profit is in the attainable pieces. Everything is about the brand. And nothing looks more like the brand then Baz does right now.</p><p>The lightning flashes behind him as the rain lashes down. Paris looks dark and dangerous tonight. He’s spread eagled in front of the open window, hands braced high on the frame, legs apart. He looks like the city is his backdrop, like the stage is all for him. I’ve kept the light in the room low to add to the savage atmosphere. </p><p>He gives me a nod and I raise the camera but it’s not quite right. The shot looks flat somehow, even with the stormy sky. </p><p>He looks too prissy and tight. There’s something wrong in the makeup – it looks too flash for the mood. He’s painted the swirls of silver down his body exactly the way they were shown on the diagrams, but it’s just not working. </p><p>I walk over. “Can I? It just looks too tidy.” </p><p>“Go ahead– I think you’ve proved you can do this” (He gives compliments like other people fling insults. I wish it wasn’t so fucking...whatever it fucking is.)</p><p>I step closer and smudge the swirl on his face, dragging my thumb across his cheek – stubble biting the pad of my finger, waxy makeup melting as I warm his cheek. </p><p>It’s better. </p><p>It’s not enough. </p><p>I drop to my knees and touch the spot on his leg where the fabric meets his skin. </p><p>I don’t know what I’m thinking. This is way beyond the way mates touch each other (are we even mates?). </p><p>I look him in the eye as I rake my fingers across his thigh, leaving the trail of my touch behind. </p><p>The drag marks through the silver are desperate and starving (am I desperate? am I starving?) but most importantly, it doesn’t look tidy anymore. Now, it looks sexy and dark. It looks like someone has interrupted a moment that was not for them. It’s intimate. </p><p>I take a shaky breath. </p><p>Baz looks like he’s about to slap me. His fists are clenched, he’s biting his lip hard. It’s perfect. I grab the camera. </p><p>The sound of the first shot is lost under the sound of the thunder. The lightning rips across the sky, lighting the shot with an unearthly glow. </p><p>We fall into the now familiar rhythm of tiny movements, half breaths, perfectly in sync, hyper aware. Since Baz described the bond between Rhys and Gareth, I haven’t been able to shake the feeling that we have that. When we focus like this, I feel like I know what he’s thinking. Like I can sense where he’s going next, like I know exactly what he wants from me. </p><p>I’ve been getting closer for the past few shots. I’ve long since had the campaign shot in the bag. It will be a blinder. Might be the best photo I’ve ever taken. Now I’m just shooting him because it makes sense. It’s the only thing in the whole mess that makes sense. </p><p>He lifts his arm above his head. That’s not one of the poses for this look, so I know he knows. He knows we’re off script. He knows there’s no earthly reason to get this close, to take these pictures. </p><p>“Simon?” His voice is hardly above a whisper. </p><p>I let the camera drop from my hand until it’s slug around my neck. “Baz.”</p><p>I raise my hand to smooth the hair back off his face, but before I make contact the iPad’s shrill call bursts out. </p><p>I step back because I’m so fucking embarrassed. I have no idea what I was going to do next but nothing sensible is a good guess. I don’t think he was inviting me to .... Oh, I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I can’t think straight when he’s near me and he’s always near me. </p><p>“Sorry, It’s probably Fiona wanting the shots, you know, from tonight.”</p><p>He nods at me and I turn away feeling like the world's biggest twat.</p><p>
  <strong>Baz</strong>
</p><p>I take the hint that Simon will not be emerging from his room again by the firmly closed door. </p><p>I dealt with Fiona’s excitement and instructions and then cleaned up. I'm embarrassed by how reluctant I was to erase his touch. To bury the embarrassment I set up for Simon’s final shoot tomorrow.</p><p>What I haven’t done is worked out what the ever living fuck is going on. What I haven’t done is drag him from his room and demand an explanation. What I haven’t done is think too hard about exactly what it all might mean. </p><p>He’s been touching me more since that conversation about Rhys and Gareth. He appeared to take it as carte blanche to ruffle my hair and clap me on the back and put his disgusting feet into my lap when we watch films late at night. But nothing about that casual contact would explain why he just tore at my thigh like he wanted to eat me. None of that explains any of what just happened. </p><p>Again. What just happened again.</p><p>Because even as I tell myself the lies about casual contact I know that <em>something </em>happens when he’s shooting me. <em>Something</em> that feels like it’s been building. <em>Something </em>has been happening here. </p><p>I shake my head at myself, trying to dislodge those thoughts. While I have a fairly good imagination, not even I have the audacity to imagine that kind of connection (I’m not going to allow myself to have that much audacity.) But he has a way of conveying what he needs when he shoots. The way he draws everything out of me and captures it all on film.  </p><p>The campaign shots have been beyond anything I’ve seen before. Fiona is wild with success. It’s all him. He’s altered each image and made it his own. Tonight’s image will be no exception. </p><p>I'm expecting an early wake up from them when they see what he’s achieved here. So I leave the thinking and feeling and wondering and hoping and go to bed. It’s for the best.</p><p>I’m not expecting to be woken up quite so very early or so very physically. Simon jumps on the bed next to me and gives me a hearty shake.</p><p>“Morning, Baz – the light is perfect so get a wiggle on and paint me up.” He presses the mattress hard so it springs back and bounces me a little.</p><p>“What time? Why?” </p><p>“It’s 5am, but we’ll lose the sunrise if you don’t hurry. Please Baz?”</p><p>I grudgingly get up and pull on joggers and a T-shirt while trying to ignore Simon standing there slack jawed. He did seem to be over his mood from last night but now he’s back to pensive and anxious.</p><p>“The set is ready. I just need to paint you, so go sit”. </p><p>If I bring it back to work he might stop behaving like the morning after. It feels like the morning after, though. Like we crossed a line last night. </p><p>The make-up mimics mine and takes no time at all to prep. This shot is supposed to be an exact reflection (I suspect they have billboards and double page spreads in mind) so I wait for him to get into position and stroll over to him exactly the same way he did to me. I cup his jaw and tilt his face up to mine.</p><p>“May I?” </p><p>He swallows and nods. </p><p>I draw my thumb across the golden paint on his cheek to the edge of his mouth. I should stop there. He did. But instead I find myself drawing my thumb along his lower lip leaving the slightest trail of shimmer behind. He swallows thickly.</p><p>I move my hand down his chest and across his hip until it meets the top of the make up on his thigh. </p><p>“And here?”</p><p>“Please?” It sounds like a question in his mouth. </p><p>I go down on one knee, tantalisingly close to him, and grip his thigh in my hand. I match his motion from last night and claw the paint down then wipe the excess off on my joggers. It’s not the time for fastidiousness. He shivers as I back off. </p><p>Simon was right. The sunrise is cold and beautiful. The light behind him casts a glow over every inch of his perfect skin. He looks illuminated from the inside. </p><p>I try to do justice to the shoot and I think I do. We don’t have the same fluidity when I have the camera but we get it done. It’s stunning. The campaign is done. </p><p>I’m not expecting what comes next. </p><p>“Baz? After we send these off, can I shoot you again?” </p><p>It’s a perfectly reasonable question. We still have the Insta campaign to keep up but we tend to stick to phone-quality pics on those.</p><p>“Why?” What am I thinking? </p><p>“Because I like to and I don’t think you hate it either and we don’t have anything else to do.”</p><p>He’s right. About all of it. </p><p>“Where?”</p><p>“Bedroom.”</p><p>I don’t bother breathing or arguing. I have no makeup on and no styling at all. But he <em>is</em> good at this. I don’t feel the need to question whatever vision he has. </p><p>“Can you stick some pants on but nothing else and sit there, like that – Oh, yes.”</p><p> </p><p>He gets on the bed so he can direct me with his hands, my shoulders, my hair, my chest. His touches are certain and my body gives under him. Is this what it’s like to have Simon Snow? Is this how it feels to belong to someone?.</p><p>“I want to do you now Snow, It’s only fair.”</p><p>He hands me the camera without argument. He knew – he knows how reckless this is. All this casual half-naked touching in bed. All this focus on the other person. All these fucking feelings I’ve got that he must see right through. </p><p>He’s beautiful. As the makeup rubs off on the white sheets he becomes more beautiful. I don’t even care about getting a good shot. I just take pictures of wherever he looks best. The ripple of muscles across his back, the definition in his arms. The way he props himself on an elbow. </p><p>I want to stay right here with him, but I don’t know how to make it happen. I don’t even know if he wants that. What if I’m just what his lens wants? </p><p>The moment turns sour in my stomach and I put the camera down. </p><p>“I need to shower and so do you. Fiona will call with her demands soon enough.”</p><p>He looks slapped. He looks raw. </p><p>I’m such a fucking dick. </p><p>
  <strong>Simon</strong>
</p><p>I’m such a fucking dick. </p><p>Why can’t I just leave him be? He clearly doesn’t want me like that. I mean I just pawed him half naked in bed and .... nothing. I need to grow the fuck up. </p><p>I zombie my way through a shower and breakfast. Not thinking. Not feeling. </p><p>I manage to get three quarters of the way through Fiona’s daily ‘swearing with a side of information’ meeting without paying any attention. </p><p>“So that’s it boys, you fucking did it. You’ll be legends for this. It breaks all the rules for marketing couture, it’s a game changer. We have to think about the future but we feel there will be a place for both of you, if you want it.There is a lot of mileage in whatever it is you two are. For now get pissed on champagne and enjoy your success, you legendary little shits”</p><p>“Can we have a few days’ peace before you try to talk us into more unethical working practices, you vile gremlin?” </p><p>Baz is pissy today. Probably because his fuckwit of a coworker keeps trying to get close to him. </p><p>“Stop pretending you don’t love the attention, Basil. It would be reckless of us not to capitalise.”</p><p>“For fucks sake, Fi, you know what people will ask. There's bloody fanfiction, don’t do this.”</p><p>What does he mean? I haven’t really bothered checking my insta for days. Fanfic sounds mortifying and possibly a bit hot. And surely Baz can see the sense in their marketing? Does he hate me that much? Can he not even stand to be in a fake relationship with me? </p><p>“Just calm down, Basil. You’ve been in this industry too long to be fazed by this. You got it done and now you can spend the next however long reading Plato while Si plays Animal Crossing. We’ll talk business later.”</p><p>We both open our mouths to object but she’s lost interest and cut the connection. </p><p>“What fanfic, Baz?” I ask and I know almost straight away that I’m going to regret it. </p><p>“It’s all debauched, Snow. Would you believe that they have me as a vampire?” </p><p>“Well, it’s not unreasonable. You are very sparkly.” I can hardly speak for trying to keep my face straight. </p><p>“They like you as a dragon. And a bottom.” The smirk he gives me is pure, unadulterated evil. It suits him. </p><p>I bump my shoulder against his as I walk past and say, “I dunno about the dragon bit”</p><p>I pretend not to notice him nearly choking to death as I grab the champagne. </p><p>“Come on, you twat. Let's get smashed.”</p><p>
  <strong>Baz</strong>
</p><p>It’s obviously reckless and stupid to be curled up on the couch with Simon bloody Snow getting gradually more inebriated by the second. He put his head in my lap about an hour ago. I’ve been on fire since, like a slow drawn-out torture that I never ever want to end. </p><p>“Baz? Baz! Baz?” </p><p>“Snow?”</p><p>“Is there someone you, y’know, like like?”</p><p>“I am not doing this Snow.”</p><p>“So there definitely is then? What's he like?”</p><p>I just sigh at him in what I hope is a long-suffering way.</p><p>“Fine keep your secrets. I bet he wears cravats though. He's probably got a dog called Macintosh Severus the Third who’s mother won crufts. I bet they go out in matching Barbour jackets. He definitely went to Oxford but he only uses his degree at dinner parties. His day job is editing and interior design magazines. He's the same height as you and the same build so you could share clothes.He thinks you are far too wild.</p><p>I can’t stop myself from laughing out loud because he’s just so very wrong. “That’s rubbish, Snow. Not my type at all.”</p><p>“Alright, Mr. Smarty Pants – you do me.”</p><p>“I did not agree to this slumber party crush sharing nonsense. Next we’ll be braiding each other’s hair.”</p><p>“Is the braiding an option? I wouldn’t mind. Play with me Baz. You aren’t convincing anyone that you are too busy doing....” He waves his hand around gesturing at the absolutely and definitely nothing that I have to do. </p><p>I frown and decide to needle him a bit. “If I must. You like a great big bear of a man who is all sunshine and rainbows. Dogs and children love him.” I can’t help but grin back at him now. “He lives in activewear so he’s always ready to help little old ladies across the road. He thinks anywhere that serves food on an actual plate is a bit <em>posh</em>.”  </p><p>Snow shakes his head against my thigh. “You are such a twat.” He’s laughing as he says it, eyes bright. </p><p>“But am I wrong? Probably not.” He jostles me again. “You didn’t even get one thing right, you arrogant prick.” </p><p>“You must be joking. Not even the bear bit?” </p><p>He shakes his head. “Nope.” </p><p>“You are full of surprises.”  I lay my hand on his shoulder and he leans his cheek on it. I could melt. </p><p>“Alright. Here’s the deal. We’ll play twenty questions. Whoever gets the most guesses right wins. Loser makes dinner.” </p><p>“Snow, this is going to take all night.” </p><p>He tries to raise one eyebrow but all he manages to do is wiggle both brows at me. It’s captivating. “You have somewhere else to be?” </p><p>“Don’t I wish,” I mutter and then instantly regret it as I see Snow’s face fall.  I wish I could take it back. I wish I could tell him the truth. That there is nowhere I would rather be right now than here with him. I make it up to him by agreeing to his terrible idea.  </p><p>It doesn't take nearly long enough for Snow to know far far too much about what my type might be. I cannot think of a time where I've ever willingly given this much information about myself to anyone.  It’s acutely embarrassing and I’m tipsy enough to be thoroughly enjoying it. Almost as much as I’m enjoying the warmth of him in my lap. Almost as much as the feel of his shoulder through the fabric of his T-shirt. </p><p>We keep going. </p><p>“My turn, brown hair?” he says arching his neck to try and look at me. </p><p>I have to think about this one. Snow’s hair is listed as brown on his info sheet but that word doesn’t do it justice. It’s a warm, light brown, yes, but swirled with gold and caramel. Bronze highlights and hints of honey.  It’s inches from my fingers now.  I watch my hand lift from where it’s been resting on his shoulder and come to lightly touch his curls. </p><p>“What colour is this?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.  </p><p>“Brown.” </p><p>“Hmm. You sure?” I let my fingers sink into the mass of his hair. “This looks more golden to me.” Snow chews his lip. I should look away but I can’t. </p><p>“You haven’t said if I’m right, Baz.” </p><p>“What was your question again?” </p><p>“Do you prefer brown hair?” I twine one of his curls around my finger. </p><p>“Definitely.” He gives me a slow smile, eyes closing as my fingers continue to twine in his hair, grazing his scalp. </p><p>We bat questions back and forth between glasses of champagne. This game has been properly illuminating and vastly unsettling.  I now know that Snow likes dark hair and grey eyes. He has a weakness for smart men who like books. He finds sarcasm unbearably sexy. I can’t let myself dwell on it. I can’t let myself think about what that might mean. </p><p>What he knows about me is everything. I've basically described Snow himself. A gorgeous combination of adorable dimples, laughter and muscles. With freckles. </p><p>“So.” Snow says. “One question left for each of us.” </p><p>“Your turn.”  </p><p>“You go first this time.” It’s my last chance to ask something. To risk making a pillock of myself or to confirm the desperate hope that’s been gnawing at my insides as we’ve been oversharing, overtouching, overstepping.  </p><p>“Model, yes or no?” He’s still curled up on his side, his head resting on my leg, my fingers still tangled in his hair. </p><p>“Meaning would I date a model or do I fancy one?” </p><p>“Either. Both.”  </p><p>“Hmm.” He sits up and throws his legs across mine then reaches out and touches his fingertip to my hand, the one that’s fallen from his curls and comes to rest on his knees. Snow traces a pattern on the back of it, gliding from knuckle to knuckle. It feels electric. “Yes.” </p><p>I close my eyes. Alright, then. My tongue feels thick, my mouth dry. My voice comes out low and raspy when I speak. “Your turn?” He keeps tracing over my skin. </p><p>When he finally speaks it’s just one word. “Me?”</p><p>I freeze. The only movement is Snow’s hand, no longer tracing patterns over my skin but sliding over mine, his fingers slipping between my own.  I lick my lips, swallow, try to work some moisture back in my mouth. Try to form words to answer. His fingers tighten on mine.  </p><p>I can do this.  </p><p>I think I know what he’s asking. </p><p>Our eyes meet. </p><p>There’s a question there, a hesitation. His face is flushed, his lip pulled between his teeth.  I raise my other hand and brush the curls off his forehead, let my fingers trace the line of his jaw. His eyes close at the touch.  </p><p>“Always you.” It’s barely above a whisper but I know he hears me, as his eyes open to stare into mine.  </p><p>“You’re sure?” His voice is a whisper. </p><p>“I have been. For a long time.”</p><p>He lets his breath out in a shaky exhalation that sounds like my name. Like my name sounded in his mouth when we were shooting. Dripping with lust and desperation. </p><p>Then he’s dragging me to him, his hands cupping my face, lips crashing into mine.</p><p>
  <strong>Simon</strong>
</p><p>His words break something loose inside me. Whatever keeps me from doing this all the time. From sliding my tongue against his, from tasting him, from touching him.</p><p>He puts his hands on my chest, I can feel how cool his fingers are through the fabric. </p><p>He’s too far, still too far.  As if he can read my mind, he pulls me closer. I straddle his hips, on my knees so I’m taller than him. I make him reach up to find my mouth. </p><p><strong>Baz</strong> </p><p>Snow pulls back, face flushed, breaths coming short and fast. He runs his fingers down my face, a gentle touch, as if I might break if he pushed any harder. </p><p>I won’t break.</p><p> I reach up and slide my hands into his hair, grabbing, pulling, forcing his mouth to mine. He groans and shifts his weight. Something ignites inside me, making me feral. I nip his bottom lip just to hear his breath catch. He does the same back and all rational thought departs. </p><p> The next time we pause for breath Snow rests his forehead against mine. Our breaths mingle as he settles himself on my lap. </p><p>My eyes close. I want him to kiss me again. I want him to keep touching me. He does. His lips find mine once more and every touch is electric, lighting up my nerves, speeding up my heart, taking the breath from my lungs. </p><p>
  <strong>Simon</strong>
</p><p>I can’t breathe, I can’t think, I can’t do anything except kiss him. I have to kiss him and kiss him and kiss him. </p><p>
  <strong>Baz</strong>
</p><p>We step out into a very quiet world. So much has changed but nothing out here has. We both blink a bit like idiots who haven't seen the sun before, in spite of the fact that we sit on the balcony every single day. </p><p>“Ready?” </p><p>“As I’ll ever be, lead the way.” I say with mock solemnity. </p><p>He lets out one of his rumbling laughs and I think I hear him say something about me being an arsehole but then he's holding my hand so I stop caring.</p><p>He walks so close to me that his shoulder bumps into mine with every step. We don't even make it to the end of the street before I have to stop and pull his mask down (it’s positively barbaric to cover that face) and kiss him. Because I can now. Because we can. </p><p>He pulls my mask back on so gently, fingers  lingering too long on my jaw. I resist the urge to purr.  But Simon is bounding off like a Labrador released from captivity (which is exactly what he is I suppose). We walk the mile or so to the address Fi sent. The streets are still quiet. It’s eerie and unnerving. I dont see it at first until my oaf of a boyfriend digs me in the ribs and exclaims “Holy Fucking Shit! Baz!”.</p><p>The billboard is huge. It would be beyond garish if not for the colour fade across it. From my picture on the left which starts in blacks and slashes of white across to Simon's shot which ends in the white of that sunrise. It's astonishing. </p><p>I can't speak for a moment under the weight of what this means, of what it could start, of how far it could take him away from me. Then he turns and cups my face in his hands.</p><p>“We look like we belong together.”</p><p>All the bad feelings trickle away, all the panic, all of it. Because he’s right.</p><p>We look like we belong together.</p><p>
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